


crown me your king

by kaumari



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Grima, M/M, Unresolved Tension, not much to tag this fic is 70 percent robin being put on trial, references to war violence, robin is a feral bastard now sorry he's ooc, robin isn't ylisse's tactician
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaumari/pseuds/kaumari
Summary: there's a man he knows, whose eyes are filled with lightning and whose hands hold a storm. there's a man he knows who could tear him to pieces with only a word, and he trusts that this power will never be used against him. it's a naive trust, but it hasn't been betrayed yet. there's no reason to start doubting him now.or; the games they've had to play are dangerous ones, and the higher stakes, the more comfortable they feel. chrom and robin have gotten used to the tension they bring.
Relationships: Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Kudos: 10





	crown me your king

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to my normal readers but. this idea Would Not Leave. which is bold of it considering there's almost nothing to tag. so here i am 4k later, even though i was adamant that it wouldn't go past 2.5k. enjoy?

The doors to the lower chambers of the palace creak ominously, echoing over the scrape of iron chains dragging against the stone floor. In the wake of its opening, the prisoners still and the sound fades away, expectation thick in its absence. Suspicion trails after him as he enters the holding cells, his unadorned cloak rough and fraying at the edges, his hood up to hide the frown twisting his face. The attentions of prisoners and guards drift soon enough, uninterested in what seems to be another faceless and nameless interrogator, sent by the upper echelons of the command.

He’ll have to have a conversation with the captains regarding their lax regulations if anyone can walk in as he has without being questioned.

For now, he turns down a corridor to his right and grimaces at the sight of the three guards standing at the end. All but one cell is empty, and it has as much security as the holding guards can spare. He doesn’t blame their caution, not when he knows exactly how dangerous the man inside is, but he can’t help the tightening of his fists and the purse of his lips. Weapons are raised threateningly when he shows no signs of stopping, but he merely rearranges the cloak to the side to reveal the brand on his right shoulder, and the shift to humble servitude is one he wishes would cease. Even two years after his ascension to the throne, he hasn’t lost the wide-eyed wonder of a new sovereign.

“Your Highness, what are you doing here?”

“Visiting a prisoner, my good men. If you’d leave us alone to speak, it would be greatly appreciated.” He knows they’ll argue for his safety, and so he reveals Falchion’s scabbard pressed against his left. “I assure you there’s no reason to be concerned.”

A few uneasy glances are exchanged until they decide questioning their sovereign’s requests is a greater crime than allowing him to speak to a prisoner unattended. With only a final warning, they step away and retreat down the corridor. It’s the best he’ll get, and he exhales heavily before lifting the hood of his cloak and staring properly into the cell.

There’s one chair, freshly built and strong, bolted into the stone towards the back. The light from the corridor barely reaches it, shrouding half the figure sitting on it in shadows. It reveals a black and purple cloak, gilded gold on the edges, and polished black boots, hardly the attire of an infantry soldier. If that wasn’t enough for him, the tips of the man’s pale white hair, barely visible, would’ve been enough of a confirmation. Golden eyes lock on him, glinting menacingly in the dim light, and Chrom feels the slightest tug of a smile for the first time since the Valmese campaign had come to an end.

Chains wrap up his legs and torso, anchoring him to both the chair and the cell around him. His arms are pulled behind the chair’s back, likely restrained in the same way, and he can see that the chains pressing into his neck have nearly rendered him immobile. Which is all for the best: Robin is dangerous, even without a tome or sword in hand.

Truthfully, if Robin had been their enemy, Chrom is certain Ylisstol would’ve fallen long ago. Being a walking time bomb of a person and a genius has always made Robin a little unstable, a little prone to mania. If he’d wanted, Ylisse would’ve been leveled to the ground in the first war itself. As it is, he’s standing on trial for war crimes committed during the Valmese campaign, with an execution nearly guaranteed.

Nearly, because Chrom is here with the express purpose of voiding that sentence.

“Robin. Welcome back to Ylisstol.”

“Chrom. I have to say, it’s not under the conditions I envisioned.” As much as he could, Robin rolls his head, as if to gesture at his surroundings. His eagle gaze doesn’t leave him, digging deeper than Chrom remembers it capable of. “I imagined there would be more celebration, of course. A parade or two in my honor, a lavish banquet wouldn’t be out of place. Perhaps even an award for my contribution to the war effort. Don’t you think it would’ve been far more befitting?”

“As if you wouldn’t have hated every moment of it.” Robin doesn’t seem concerned; the easy nonchalance of his posture is indication of that. “You don’t seem worried that you’re on death row.”

“Why should I be?” A flash of teeth, wild and sharp. Robin knows fully well why Chrom’s here, but he’s always enjoyed getting a rise out of him. Chrom has always enjoyed giving as good as he got.

“You have a lot of faith in a king you’ve never directly served.” Robin laughs openly at that, as much as he can with the chains crossed over his chest.

“Hardly an argument. Well, I’m waiting. I’ve been in these restraints since we returned to Ylisstol, I’m looking forward to getting them off.” Chrom lets his smile grow. It’s been years since they’ve been able to talk so freely, although he recognizes that for Robin, he may never cease talking in cryptic code. The wars have undoubtedly changed Ylisse and all its citizens, and no one has shouldered the responsibility as much as Robin, not even Chrom himself.

“I can’t do that yet. You’re still scheduled for a trial at the start of the next week. But you should walk out of there a free man, and should that fail, I can pardon you officially.”

“The checks and balances of a democratic monarchy never cease to amaze,” Robin marvels dryly, but there’s no change in his posture or eyes.

He’s listening, Chrom realizes, to the conversation between the guards at the other end of the corridor. Their voices, louder than Chrom and Robin’s, carry easily over the background noises of the main hub as they discuss problem prisoners and their boss. Even the iron-on-stone from earlier has died out. It’s relevant information to Robin, he’s sure, but it irks him nonetheless.

“How heavy are those chains?”

“Heavy enough,” Robin answers with that same wild smile. “A blessing from Nag herself you didn’t spill all of my secrets.” Of course, if he’d let slip that Robin could use innate magic, spoken runes imbued with only the power of his intentions, they’d have muzzled him like a dog. As it is, Robin can, reasonably, escape whenever he wants. That he doesn’t do so is a testament to his faith in Chrom, and he finds himself loathe to betray it.

Well, loathe to betray it a second time. He couldn’t help the first time it had happened, thrust into an incriminating situation where the only options were to pretend he’d captured Robin or lose the respect and trust of his entire army. Robin’s understanding was succinct, with the caveat that Chrom owed him for the whole ordeal. He was happy to agree, if only to keep Robin from lingering on it any longer.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if Henry’s around, would you?”  
  
“The one followed by crows?”

“The one and only.”

“I can certainly ask. You were the only one brought directly to my attention.”

“I’d bet my left hand it was Frederick who told you,” Robin mumbles, letting his hair fall carelessly into his eyes.

“It was.” Another mumble from Robin, and although he can’t quite catch it, he’s sure it’s something along the lines of “bastard” in one language or another. Chrom holds back his snort of laughter, although he isn’t quite as successful hiding the amusement in his smile. It’ll be another challenge to convince Frederick and Lissa of Robin’s true intentions and nature, but he has time to make his case. “Three days then, Robin.”

“Mhm. Have a talk with the Warden on your way out. Let him know what a stellar job he’s done here.”

The frown makes a reappearance as he bids Robin farewell. His hood goes back up, a cursory nod is given to the guards as he passes them on his way out, and Chrom mentally calculates how much time he has before the palace doors open to the public. About an hour, which is plenty of time to him. All he needs are fifteen minutes to adorn his Exalt formal wear, which primarily consisted of a fur-lined cloak he knew Emmeryn never had to wear and a glorified tiara. The bow he’d been given after the coronation, some memento of his ascension, more than made up for both of those shortcomings.

Yes, an hour should be enough to talk to the Warden. Perhaps he’ll cough up a convincingly dubious reason for the blatant mistreatment of his prisoners for Chrom to implicate him with. It’s nice to hope.

* * *

“Robin of Plegia, you are being charged with two counts of treason, three counts of betraying sensitive national secrets, seven counts of grievous torture, and two counts of attempted regicide, all counts against you from the Valmese campaign.” Because otherwise, she would be reading from a scroll the length of her arm, Robin muses. He wonders how scandalized the faces around him would look if they knew the extent to which these charges only brushed the surface. “How will you plead to these charges?”

“Guilty.” There’s no shying away from the cold truth. He wants them to know exactly what kind of man he is, what kind of man he became for this country.

If the judge is surprised by his admission, she hides it well—though if she expected him to even attempt to plead “not guilty”, she was more of a fool than he thought. She merely nods crisply and moves forward with the trial, and Robin loses focus as the opening arguments are delivered. The scar stretching down his cheek aches dully. The courtroom is cold, more of the same stone walls and floors as the holding cells and prison, and he’s bored enough that the way the pain pulls at the edges of his consciousness is enough to set him on edge. But he tamps that down as soon as it comes to his attention, biting back the irritation and settling back into carefully crafted disinterest.

He has a reluctant defense attorney by the name of Stewart, here only because he drew the unlucky short stick. Robin wouldn’t have asked for an attorney at all if he could get away with it, but the conditions of a fair trial demand it. In line with how minuscule his desire to represent Robin is, the opening statement is flimsy at best and deplorable at worst. He ignores the urge to sneer at the attorney’s back and takes satisfaction in the fact that Stewart leans as far away from him as possible when he returns to the table.

More arguments from the prosecution, along with a host of evidence in witness statements. They’re called up to the stand in a steady flow, victims and spectators alike. Robin recognizes a few of them, hears their screams echo in his mind. There’s no remorse—hasn’t been for years. He can’t say he cared then or that he’s paying attention to their tragedies now. There were some things he had to do that were a necessary consequence of his role in the war, and those are the things he keeps perfectly emotionless in his memories. He didn’t have a choice. He didn’t.

Stewart doesn’t ask to cross-examine the witnesses. Robin doesn’t either. The prosecution wraps up their argument, self-satisfaction obvious on all of their faces, and it pleases him to know it won’t last. Nerves aside, Stewart has already submitted his plans for a witness testimony, the outcome of which he is completely clueless of, so he can’t back out last second and rescind the testimony. So it’s in his trembling, ineffectual voice that Exalt Chrom is called to the witness stand.

Chrom is wearing his old “captain of the Shepherds” uniform, back when it was his more distinguished title. He has new scars, Robin notes, which hadn’t been visible to him in the holding cells. A long, corded scar runs down his branded arm, diagonal from inside the elbow to the outside of his wrist. It tapers at the end, turning into nothing more than a thin white line, but near his elbow is where most of the scar tissue is centered. It must have been the point of impact, he muses, and he’s deep enough in thought that he nearly misses the start of the testimony proper.

He knows it all, every last confidential detail that Chrom is about to spill forth to protect Robin’s life, so he entertains himself by gazing out at the jury and gallery. Their faces twist from grim to horrified, just as he thought they would, just as he wanted them to look. His lips twist into a familiar sneer unconsciously, daring them to look his way and feel pity. There’s no room to pity him.

Being a spy, first in the laughable government Gangrel organized and again in the militaristic theocracy of Validar, had taught him many things. The first being that cruelty was the default, and losing sleep over it would only make him look weak. The second being that there are worse people he could become, and at least he wasn’t so depraved that he found joy in the torture and murders. The third being that he has learned to look down on everyone beneath him, and to cast them aside like dirty rags when their use is through. None of those were particularly positive, except perhaps the second, and that was only in the light of “it could’ve been worse”.

His hands are in fists now, following the haughtiness and preparation for violence, and he forcibly relaxes them. Clenching them strains at the burn scar on his left hand, and it’s not as if he’s going to need to fight someone in the middle of his trial. Chrom’s voice is oddly soothing, the rich baritone echoing in the courtroom warmly. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like he could relax—the last time being the night everything went pear-shaped and Robin ended up in the Shepherds’ custody during the Plegian campaign. And even then, he’d only let down his guard because Chrom had been there.

Robin learns from his mistakes. One slip up is a coincidence, two is a death sentence.

The tension seeps back into him as Chrom’s echo falls silent and he leaves the witness stand, giving Robin only a cursory glance as he returns to the gallery. It grates on his nerves, this casual disregard. Dully, he registers that the judge has dismissed the jury to deliberate.

At the least, he knows an execution isn’t on the table. The jury shouldn’t base a verdict on one testimony, but the weight of that testimony being from the Exalt can’t be ignored. Robin tilts his head back and closes his eyes. They won’t be long—he’s betting on less than an hour—so he and the gallery stay seated, and the voices behind him swell from a murmur to a veritable riot. Through the fog, he hears the occasional _turncoat_ , _traitor_. None of that is worth his attention, and he replays the strategies from the final days of the war in his head and notes the weaknesses he had built into them. He’ll have to adjust the plans for the future now that he’s no longer putting on a show.

Before the bell tower can toll the next hour, the clerk lets the jury back into the courtroom. Robin’s eyes float open, lazily watching as they settle down once more and pass their verdict forward to the judge. He expects life in jail, perhaps forced servitude. Reasonably, he shouldn’t walk out of this room a free man—not that he’s ever had a chance to be one.

“The jury has reached a verdict. Robin of Plegia, you have been declared guilty of twelve counts, barring the two counts of attempted regicide. In light of extenuating circumstances regarding the charges brought against you, the jury has sentenced you to seven years of community service, to be determined by the Exalt and his Council.”

So, committing grievous crimes on behalf of the nation is an excusable offense. He’ll skip all this trial nonsense next time and get a pardon instead. Stewart looks terrified about the idea of Robin spending his life outside of prison, although for what it’s worth it, he’s certain they wouldn’t have been able to hold him anyway. His case is closed, he returns the cursory glance Chrom had given him as the guards lead him down the center aisle, and then he’s sweeping out into the wooden halls of the courthouse where the chill that clung to him dissolves like his guilt and remorse. They won’t take the restraints off until they’ve returned to the prison and cleaned up all the legal aftermath, but Robin isn’t bothered by trivialities.

For the first time since he’d regained his damned, vicious memories, he feels giddy with freedom.

* * *

Frederick is waiting for him in the war room, well before anyone else is scheduled to arrive. His knife-like gaze cuts through Chrom’s meager excuses well before they’re even made, and he sighs in preparation for the argument ahead.

“What were you thinking, my Lord?”

“I was thinking,” he places Robin’s maps on the table, the same ones they’d confiscated upon his capture, “that I couldn’t let a perfectly loyal member of our resistance be executed on the block.”

“He is a murderer, and likely betrayed us whenever he had to in order to save his skin.” Frederick uses a measured tone, but his jaw is tight. It’s the same argument he’d used last week when Chrom first brought up Robin’s true role in the campaigns they’d waged.

“Frederick, I understand your concerns. But as far as our enemies were concerned, we had shunned Robin permanently when Plegia invaded, believing he was a _Plegian_ spy. He rejoined the Grimleal and offered his services in order to seek vengeance.”

“And what is to say he doesn’t truly feel that way?” Chrom stills, the scrolls of parchment rolling aimlessly away. “Forgive my bluntness, but no one trusts him, and the people would sooner see him executed than holding any position of note in the castle and Council. Are you willing to put the goodwill of people in peril for one man?”

“I think you forget, Sir Frederick,” Chrom answers tightly, straightening to stare his deputy directly in the eyes. “That without the information Robin was able to provide us, the Dragon’s Table would have surely been the place of my demise.” They both remember, vividly, the bolt of lightning from Validar that would’ve hit Chrom square in the chest had it not been for their preparation and Miriel and Ricken’s combined shield. Frederick’s lips thin.

“The point stands, my Lord, that we have no reason to believe Robin’s intentions.”

“And my point, Sir Frederick, is that you don’t trust my judgement enough to believe Robin’s intentions. I asked this of him, and he trusted me enough to accept. Robin’s role as a spy, as the insider of every campaign, is what allowed us to end the Plegian and Valmese campaigns before the years were out. And I will ask that you do not forget his contributions. His actions were meant to keep suspicion at bay.”

“As lovely as this conversation sounds,” a voice drawls from the doorway, startling Frederick enough to snap his quill at the tip, “I do think you should be having conversations like this with me, Frederick.”

“ _Sir_ Frederick,” he says tersely, and Robin’s mouth curls into a smirk.

“Of course, _Frederick_.” He takes a seat on the raised chair across from the knight, to the right of the head where Chrom will sit, come the start of the meeting. He sighs quietly, wishing Robin wouldn’t goad Frederick like this. As it is, he can already see the steam coming out of his deputy’s ears.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but that seat is reserved for the Head Tactician.”

“And I apologize for the imminent stroke you will experience, Deputy of War, but Exalt Chrom declared me his Head Tactician in a royal decree released three hours ago.” With a flourish—Chrom could tell he’d been waiting for precisely this moment—Robin pulled out a parchment embossed with his official seal. Frederick stares at the offending document and then at Chrom, the muscles of his neck straining from the force of his clenched jaw.

“I was not aware of this development.”

“Because I have not yet declared it to the country and my Council,” Chrom said, stifling the sigh that begs to follow.

“My Lord, you can’t possibly—”

“—Robin has been assigned to lead post-war reconciliation efforts in the countryside, where most of the raids took place. As part of his community service, he’s been mandated to take part in the physical and social aspects of this project, rebuilding houses and trust between the villagers and the capital. You are aware of this, Frederick.”

“I am, my Lord, but Head Tactician is an unprecedented step to take without prior approval.”

“I was simply reinstating Robin into the role he held prior to his agreement to become our spy.”

“Your spy,” Robin interjects, still staring at Frederick with the same satisfied smirk. “I did it at Chrom’s request, not for the whims of the political machinery you all dance for. Were there any other concerns, Frederick?”

“None.” Frederick stands abruptly and nods at Chrom stiffly. “Excuse me, my Lord, but I must retrieve a spare quill.” He leaves the war room, the oak doors shutting soundly behind him. Robin follows and pushes the thick bolts into place, sealing the war room off from the outside.

“Confidential information,” Robin in response to Chrom’s raised eyebrow, his light voice betraying the storm in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to betray another nation, hm?”

“Don’t give me that, Robin,” Chrom groans, turning back to the maps and organizing them by country and direction. He’s amazed, as always, by the level of detail in each one, down to the terrain markings. The same strong ink trails that outlined villages and ravines had been used to meticulously layout Valm Castle for their siege. He wonders who his Council attributes that success to. Certainly not the spineless fool they’d forced Chrom’s hand to instate. Alben had barely been worth his weight in hay.

“You want them to believe me so badly, Chrom, but you must know the game you’re playing.” The storm is brewing in his voice now, heavy and low. Chrom lays down the map and traces the edge of Plegia’s western coast.

“The game is convoluted and meaningless,” Chrom answers, the steel in his voice clear. “If you give them a foot, they’ll take a thousand. So long as they can’t do the former, I’ll be alright.”

“Of course, the politics aside, it hardly matters that your people may revolt against you for backing a prisoner of war and tried criminal.”

“It hardly matters to you that this is who you’ve become.”

“At your behest.”

Chrom turns slowly on his heel. He knows this challenging grin, teeth bared in the small gap of his lips, and he knows he’s walking right into Robin’s trap. He can’t find it in himself to care or avoid it. “If you didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have forced you, and I kept giving you an out every time we met. You never took it. So what’s your game, Robin? What are you playing?”

They know what it is, clear as the flash when lightning strikes steel, because Robin has walked him into the table. It digs into his lower back, grounding him against the electricity arcing in Robin’s presence. If Chrom blinks, he’ll miss them; flashes of white gold dance around his hair and hands, ungloved for the first time in years. The burn scar glares at him, stretched painfully thin over Robin’s bones. Spiny, spindly, sparking. The burn scar mars the beautiful curve of his hand, but a storm brews at the tips of his fingers, and the pity shrivels away. How can a scar compare to the power Robin commands?

“What’s my game?” Robin asks in the lull, too quiet to be natural, too volatile to be safe. “Was I not obvious enough the first time, my prince?” He uses a deceptively delicate touch to push his Exalt cloak off, the very fur-lined monstrosity Chrom dreads wearing.

He’s tired of this game: the aftertaste of rain on his lips, chasing the ghost of an electric touch. There is a man in front of him filled with lightning, and he is the sword it will strike, so why delay the inevitable?

“You were.” And they pass through the storm wall. Robin’s storm is hungry, bruising, and vicious. The insistent press of his lips, the cut of his teeth, the jarring taste of blood. When the shockwaves of the kiss subside, Chrom licks his lips and tastes charged metal. Robin’s eyes flicker between gold and strikes of purple, and Chrom knows he’s following the smear of blood along his lower lip. “Have you lost your touch?”

“Not at all.” Lightning is replaced by wild light and Robin tilts his head toward the door. Chrom knows, instinctively, this calm is merely the eye of the storm. “Frederick is back.”

“Stop provoking him and you’ll have less trouble convincing the rest of the Council.” He adjusts the set of his cloak and tries to smooth down his static-charged hair. The state of his lips can’t be hidden, but he can get away with saying he bit it himself. Frederick won’t believe him, but Frederick’s opinion hardly matters.

The wild light glints. “At your behest, my prince.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kaumaridevi) \+ [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/kaumaridevi)!


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